In Pursuit of Ghosts
by themuse123
Summary: "He just started running one day." Five years after the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo can no longer stand being cooped up in his hobbit hole. Of course, some dwarves just don't understand the concept of unwelcome.
1. Prologue

He just started running one day.

All the hobbits of Bagshot Row turned to stare as he darted past, dressed in the same cherry red coat from five years ago. They shook their heads and tisked and muttered their disapproval at the sight of the dagger strapped to his belt, and the strange carven branch slung across one shoulder.

"Crazy Baggins really lost it this time,"they said, and they let him go with a collective sense of relief.

No more poisoning the children's minds with fantastic tales of dragons and dwarves and giant spiders. No more strange, embarrassing, _unsociable_ behavior. And- to the triumph of the Sackville-Bagginses- no more guarding the horde of silverware in his tunnels of wealth.

Perhaps he would never return. They could only hope. Not that they would ever wish _ill_ upon the odd little duck. But maybe he would decide to stay with those dwarves of his in the mountains, or perhaps reclaim another dragon horde. Just as long as he did so far away from Hobbiton.

He ignored all of this on his way out of the Shire- the looks, the laughs, the mutterings. He ignored everything except the blood rushing in his ears, the heat of the sun on his face, the early spring breeze tickling through his hair.

And _running_. The _feel_ of it, the sheer _freedom_ of it… He could feel all the strings that jailed him to his life within the Shire snapping without any effort, without any resistance. He was unbound and unraveling and unable to care that this was tantamount to suicide.

He was alone this time, without any wizards or sword-slinging warriors to back him up. But he had his sword and his shield, and he had been practicing that move Dwalin had taught him, and he'd decided that it was time again to let the moment sweep him away. Sweeping moments didn't come around every day, after all.

He supposed he should have seen it coming. When the urge finally struck him with the sudden and shattering swiftness of lightning, his belongings were already packed. Two pairs of outfits, a cache of food, a whetstone for his dagger and a hand-fashioned slingshot- all were tucked neatly in a pack on his mother's glory box, waiting for him to realize that it was indeed time for another adventure.

(Of course there were also the ghosts to consider but he wasn't going to think about that because ghosts simply didn't exist, and even if they did he couldn't imagine them being so utterly _exasperating_.)

He didn't bother looking behind him, although he knew he would probably regret it later. Until that first unexpected journey, Bag End was everything he thought he would ever want. Ever need.

But that was before he saw the Mountain through the icy mists of Long Lake, before he ever held a king's heart in his hands and gave it up for ransom, before, before, _before_.

 _No sense looking back now,_ he told himself roughly as he neared the very edge of the Shire, heart fluttering in his throat. _Home is behind…_

He almost succeeded in ignoring the second voice that chimed in to finish:

… _th_ _e world is ahead._

 **~v~**

 **A/N: Alright, I know it's short but it will definitely pick up in the next chapter, I pinky promise. Review if it pleases you, and then go and listen to some awesome music, or watch a scary movie, or make some s'mores and dance around in your kitchen. Or all three. That's what I'mma be doing :) Lots of love.**


	2. Interludes in Insanity

**A/N: Hey, guys! Sorry it took so long to post this next chapter, for some reason writing lately has been like pulling teeth xS But thank you so much for your patience, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

He didn't think anything of it at first. His brain was still blurry from being very much in mourning- he could have very easily misplaced his handkerchief. Though it had been several months since his return from Erebor, he had gone through quite a few handkerchiefs when the nights got too lonely and the tears too heavy.

He was very small to bear such a weight, the weight of a whole kingdom.

He knew that was probably a bit dramatic, but it truly felt as though he had returned to the Shire with the entire Lonely Mountain on his back.

Of course it became a little suspicious when the handkerchiefs started turning up in odd places, like the pantry or his mother's glory box. And he absolutely couldn't ignore it when he looked out the window one day and saw the embroidered square of cloth caught in the branches of his oak tree.

That was also the first day he started hearing the voices, although he supposed at the time it was just one. He heard his own name, (or at least the one-vowel-away-from-being-his-own-name version, which somewhere along the line he had come to accept as a familiar sobriquet) in a voice as sunny and recognizable as the morning, punctuated by a giggle. The response was out of his mouth before this new development really sunk in:

"Kili, I swear on all the treasure in Erebor, if you move my handkerchiefs one more time I'll tie them all together and throttle you with them."

But sink in it did, just as soon as he finished speaking, and he paused in the middle of folding the prim little cloth while his spine went rigid.

He might've been able to shake it off as a temporary lapse in sanity, a product of too much time spent alone, if the voice hadn't spoken again.

"I never pegged you as the violent type, little burglar. Do you really think you should be treating your precious handkerchiefs in such a way?"

Bilbo didn't stay to listen to anymore. He took off running as fast as his little legs would carry him, back to the safety of his smial. The handkerchief lay abandoned at the foot of the tree.

He couldn't sleep a wink that night. The quiet somehow felt like a muted gale- his nerves shrieked just below the surface and he was certain that at any moment he would hear the voice again. Desperately he wished for the thunderous snoring of the Company to drown out the silence.

Eventually sleep came in the wee hours of the morning, and he awoke later than he was used to. Into the kitchen he stumbled, groggy and grumpy, his stomach complaining loud and clear that not only had he missed breakfast, but he had missed second breakfast as well and even elevenses!

"By Mahal, how I ever survived that accursed journey I shall never know…" he grumbled as he prepared his tea.

As soon as the words were out, he clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't spoken of the journey to anyone, not even himself, since his return. He had a sneaky suspicion this was partly why he had not been able to heal. Without an outlet, his anguish sat and festered until he couldn't even bear to address the cause. A vicious circle.

And Mahal, _Mahal_. He wasn't a dwarf! He had no right to talk like one!

"You have every right, Bilbo, you're one of us. It's not your fault you were born in the Shire."

Bilbo was silent for what felt like several ages, and in each one he experienced fresh waves of distress.

Was this madness then? Had he truly lost his mind, like half of Hobbiton claimed? How else could he be hearing the voice of a…dwarf.

He shut his eyes tight. Couldn't even think the word…

"Dead."

It didn't seem to carry any weight in Kili's merry voice. Instead it conjured up images of sunshine and spring flowers and a dozen other things that were ridiculously at odds with the word.

"You really must come to terms with my demise, Mister Boggins. You can't just sit here and sulk forever."

"I am not _sulking_ ," the hobbit muttered.

On some level it terrified him that he couldn't bring himself _not_ to respond, but he thought perhaps he needed to go a little mad. Perhaps talking to the voice would alleviate his grief and bring an end to this delusion.

"Sure you are. I've traveled with you, I know your sulky face."

Bilbo scowled.

"Also, I'm not a delusion."

"Oh, really? Then what…what…" Bilbo trailed off, a dent creasing his forehead. "Wait. I didn't say anything about any delusions."

"Well, not out loud."

Not out loud.

"You mean…you can hear what I'm thinking." His voice was so flat that it wasn't even a question.

"Most of it, yes. Quite a lovely gift, if I do say so myself. Your thoughts are hilariously grumpy in the morning."

 _This isn't happening,_ Bilbo told himself. _And if it is, it's all in your mind._

Out loud, he said, "You know, that just further proves my point that you are no more than a figment of my imagination. Some kind of hallucination."

"Believe what you want to believe, Mister Boggins," Kili replied, infuriatingly cheerful. "But I won't be going anywhere either way."

The hobbit ground his teeth and stalked back to the bedroom to slip into his gardening clothes.

This pattern continued for several weeks. Kili- or rather, Kili's voice- followed him around like an exuberant puppy dog- commenting on Bilbo's unremarkable routines because there was always something funny about them, teasing him when he would get flustered, and, of course, hiding as many possessions as he could.

This incensed Bilbo more than anything. Not simply because he couldn't find his gardening shears or his evening robe or his tea kettle when he needed them. That was only a trivial part of the problem.

The real problem was the fact that hallucinations did not move physical objects.

This thought drove him mad during the brief interludes in which Kili was silent, gone to wherever it was disembodied voices went when they weren't heckling the living.

 _Maybe I'm moving those things myself,_ he thought one night as he lay in bed. _Perhaps it's a side effect of the madness._

But that thought often led him to an equally troubling riddle.

Did mad people acknowledge their madness?

On most occasions he was quite good at riddles- exceptional, if his little golden ring was anything to go by- but this one had him stumped. It was only by the next night that he started to wonder if maybe it didn't matter as much as he thought.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of fresh tea clasped in his hands. It was late, much later than he was used to staying up, but although his eyes were heavy with exhaustion he did not move from his chair.

Eventually the voice came, as expected.

"Why the long face, Master Burglar?"

Bilbo smiled a little. "I've come to a decision. A temporary one, at the very least."

"Have you?" He didn't sound surprised, but the hobbit answered anyway.

"Yes. I've decided that I don't care if I'm crazy. There has always been a part of me that's crazy. I was crazy to run after you guys that day, crazy to pick fights with orcs and spiders and dragons. So perhaps I should stop fighting it."

When Kili speaks, there is a smile in his voice. "You aren't crazy, Bilbo. And as I recall, it was only one dragon."

"Be that as it may, it was still insanity. One dragon or a hundred makes little difference to someone as small as me."

Kili laughed. "Alright, perhaps you are crazy for that. But you're also brilliant for it."

"Thank you."

So he sat for a while with his cozy illusion, chatting about ailing forests and malevolent arachnids, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

"Go to bed, Mister Boggins."

There was the briefest touch on his shoulder, but that could've been a breeze. Bilbo nodded, mumbled a quiet goodnight, and slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.


End file.
